


Safe For Anarchy

by orphan_account



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If he gets to open his eyes and look at me I swear I’ll never drop fucking pistachio shells in the couch again.I wrote this for a good friend a year or so ago when she was very sick and wanted some hurt/comfort, related to something Armie tweeted at the time about being afraid of a mass shooting. Violence is briefly and non-graphically described herein, everyone ends up OK, and no children are hurt or even appear.Title is from "I Am Waiting" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti: "I am waiting for the war to come which will make the world safe for anarchy."





	Safe For Anarchy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NiciJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiciJones/gifts).



> A note to LA-area readers: I pictured this occurring at Cafe Bizou on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. It has closed since I wrote this fic, which seems poignant yet somehow appropriate. But it was once one of "my spots", and I liked picturing the boys there.

Armie chuckles, shakes his head a little at Timmy with the disbelief that still hasn’t totally disappeared in the few months they’ve had to themselves. Together. Timmy’s trying to eat fettuccine from the end of Armie’s fork and Armie’s wiggling it just a little each time, so slightly that Timmy doesn’t notice, but he’s got sauce on his cheek now and he’s still pursuing the bite of pasta with single-minded determination. 

 

“Hey, better get your napkin. You don’t wanna look like those ancient press photos of you with sauce on your mouth and a bad tie.”

 

“Fuck you, Armie, you think those were adorable and you know it.” Timmy wipes his cheek with the white cloth napkin. The restaurant is fairly empty at this time of day and the hostess has propped the door open to let in the warm L.A. breeze. They’re about halfway through a bottle of Sancerre and Timmy can smell the ocean on the wind. They’re splitting a plate of pasta so they’re not too full to hike Runyon Canyon after lunch. It’s May, not hot enough yet to really complain about anything other than sand in your Converse when you go for a hike.

 

The light catches Armie’s eyes at a rare angle and Timmy feels he can see all the way to the back of his pupils, where Armie’s eyes are processing their image of Timmy, feeding it to his brain, telling him  _ he’s still here. You’re here. Together. _ Timmy reaches for Armie’s hand, forgets the food in the sudden need to touch, to tell him, “I lov-”

 

Then Armie’s bicep explodes.

 

The autopilot part of Timmy’s brain is wondering why the next table has ordered a bottle of champagne. Must be a special occasion. Must be a big bottle if the cork popped that loudly. Then that same part of his mind wonders how Armie has managed to spill their wine on his upper arm.  _ You silly boy _ , Timmy goes to say.

 

Then he realizes they’re not drinking red wine.

 

_ Can’t hear. Make a note. Don’t listen to headphones so loud. Must be the reason. _

 

Timmy feels like he’s underwater. He turns slowly to the door, sees a man there in a thick black vest  _ but it’s too hot for a vest _ holding an AR-15  _ but I didn’t see a film permit outside, if you’re filming an action movie here there’s paperwork, there’s always paperwork _ and someone tackles him from the side and Timmy wants to cry out  _ that’s not right, he’s not falling properly, I’ve done stunts before and you have to fall right, someone here is going to get hurt _

 

He meets Armie’s eyes. They’re unfocused. There hasn’t been enough wine yet for his eyes to go glassy like that.

 

Armie is slumping in his chair and Timmy reaches for him, automatically, like taking a breath. Runs to the side of his chair and slides an arm around his waist. Something in Timmy that might be older than time screams  _ don’t move him _ so he doesn’t really, just slides to the floor with Armie, follows him down as far as he might need to go, until Armie’s head rests in his lap.

 

_ Gotta clean up this stain, Armie hates taking clothes to the cleaners, such a hassle, we’ll take care of it ourselves, but why does this stain have a heartbeat, heartbeats are for inside the body and Armie always tells me his heart beats for me but I never wanted to actually see it _

 

They let him go inside the ambulance with Armie. They’re not married-- _ not yet anyway, I had a fucking ring, it’s in a box at the house and I was planning to make it special and if I believed in a god I’d ask them to make Armie OK so I can ask right fucking now but it seems a little late to find religion _ \--but they recognize Timmy and Armie and know they’re a couple, and the rules get bent just a little. 

 

“Vitals OK, I think he’s in shock but he’s stable.”

 

_ If he gets to open his eyes and look at me I swear I’ll never drop fucking pistachio shells in the couch again. _

 

“--disgruntled former employee--”

 

_ Listen to me, I’m such a fucking child. This isn’t asking my parents if I can stay out late. This is Armie. Bleeding. It was so fast. Our kisses last forever. And then in one second he might never be able to kiss me again. _

 

“--caught him, they’re saying no bail. Sick guy though, shooting up a bunch of strangers--”

 

Timmy has to wait outside the intensive care unit while the trauma team works on Armie. He paces, rolls the cuffs of his hoodie over his hands and back onto his wrists, texts Pauline. Two hours later they come out and tell him he can see Armie in his room. The doctor is kindly, recognizes Timmy, compliments his work. “He’ll be fine eventually,” she says, and there are some sentences after it about physical therapy and slightly decreased range of motion but Timmy doesn’t hear them. He has heard all he needs to know.

 

The hospital room smells of vinegar and baby powder. It’s a private room, so they must have recognized Armie in the operating room. There’s tasteful wallpaper and a plush couch. And Armie. Armie in the middle of a giant mechanized bed, left arm in a sling, an IV in his right arm and a heart monitor on his chest. It’s the first time Timmy ever thinks Armie looks small. Armie’s asleep, feet curled to the side so his legs fit on the bed, and Timmy doesn’t dare wake him. He pulls a chair up beside the bed and places his hand on Armie’s leg where it sticks out from the bottom of the hospital gown. He can feel Armie’s pulse there. Is he imagining things? Or does it feel stronger than before, an embodiment of Armie’s own body’s determination to get past this fucking nonsense so he can get back to life with Timmy? Back to all he ever wanted? Timmy wonders if Armie would say anything like that if he were awake, or if his relieved imagination is just working overtime.

 

Dawn is streaking the window behind them when Armie wakes up. Timmy is still in the chair, his head resting on the bed beside Armie’s legs.  _ Christ, kid, you’re going to have a backache when you wake up _ , Armie thinks, and goes to ruffle Timmy’s hair before realizing his arm on that side doesn’t quite function like he remembered. Swimming up through the fog of painkillers, he remembers he has another arm and reaches across himself to tousle Timmy’s hair with that one instead. Timmy starts at the touch and then fixes Armie with a look so full of pure joy and gratitude that he knows he’ll die a happy man if he earns that look even once more in his life.

 

“Hey, it’s the left side this time. It’ll complement the Sundance photos nicely,” Armie croaks weakly. Timmy would love to wrap Armie in a bear hug for making terrible jokes at a time like this, but he contents himself with scattering small kisses down Armie’s legs. “Now go ask about when I get out of here. Let’s get past this fucking nonsense so we can get back to each other as it should be.”

 

Timmy’s green eyes fill with tears at this as he presses a kiss to Armie’s lips. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

**Author's Note:**

> dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr.


End file.
